Post Operative Depression

I found this on someone else's site and it's worth reproducing.

Post Operative Depression

Breast reduction is an involved surgery that covers a large and sensitive surface area. It is going to take time and rest to heal. But, many times we tend to forget that. As well as your body going through a major trauma, your emotions run the full spectrum while you seek information, visit doctors, and prepare for the surgery. Once you finally make it to the hospital, you are given general anesthesia just prior to and during your surgery. When you wake up in the recovery room you may be given intravenous injections of Morphine (or other very strong narcotic pain medication).  At home you will have prescription-strength pain medications as well. 

To add to your situation you just had a surgery that changed your body a great deal. You are excited and want to be accepted by the people you love with your new body. You are also held back from enjoying your new body by the recovery process. There are feelings about spending so many years saddled with large breasts and uncertainty of how to define yourself afterwards.  You have made a tremendous life change in just a few hours of surgery.

What do you get when you combine all of this? Post-op depression!

Post-op depression is very common for any surgery patient. In most cases, this is a temporary condition that resolves itself within two weeks. Should you have depression that lasts beyond two weeks, please contact your plastic surgeon and/or your primary care physician. They should be notified of your difficulties and there may be medical intervention.

In the meantime, what can you do to help with your depression?

* Don't beat yourself up about it. It's so normal. Give yourself permission to cry and talk about it. Just being able to express your feelings goes a long way towards helping you to feel better.

* Make sure you are drinking plenty of water. This water will help to flush out the large amounts of medication that have been put into your body in a short period of time.

* Eat a sensible diet. Make sure that you are eating healthy food on a regular basis. This will give your body the energy it needs to heal.

* Rest! At BreastHealthOnline we cannot stress this enough. You have been through a lengthy and involved surgery and your body needs every available resource to heal what it perceives as "injuries." Please read Pre op & Post Op Nutrition, Hydration, Healing & Rest for more details on what your body needs post op.

* Relax. Have someone give you a foot massage, hand massage, back rub, or a shoulder and neck rub. Light scented candles and play soft music or allow yourself a good cry. Do what you can to pamper yourself and allow others to pamper you.

Again, if your depression lasts more than two weeks please call your plastic surgeon or primary care physician.

Day 9, yukky

I still feel awful. Very tired, fell asleep at lunch time for 2 hours. Nasty oozy stuff coming out, better go and get the nurses to check it out tomorrow. Feel very shivery at times. Taking the antibiotics to keep infection at bay but it does look infected regardless. Right side is BLACK, and this is not a nice sight, as if part of you has been dead about a week. 

I keep getting memories of the drains coming out, that shocking feeling and sound, and I yell at the thought of it and nearly can't stand the memory. Post traumatic stress I suppose.

I used to like having a shower, but now I dread it, because I have to look at the mess. 

At least the glands in my neck are not swollen any more from the anaesthetic tube.

I feel grumpy and miserable. 

8th Day, Sudden Shooting Pains

Still feeling horrible. Sudden shooting pains which apparently could go on for months. Started to get a cough, maybe an infection. 

Since the operation I had swollen glands in my neck, front and back, from the anaesthetic tube, and today is the first day I haven't noticed the pain from those.

I started to shake and shiver around 7pm and thought I might have to call the doctor, but it settled down. 

The 7th Day, Blisters

Although weak and exhausted I had to get out of bed and get to the doctor. I had horrible blisters everywhere especially under my arms. I couldn't think what caused such a thing. Also things were kind of oozing and nasty looking. 

The doctor was pretty shocked, she'd never seen this kind of operation before. It does look dreadful. She called up to the nurses station to see if they knew about it, and they had seen lots of them, so she sent me up there to get dressed & sorted and gave me a script for antibiotics due to a slight infection. Infection, of course, can kill you in these cases so it can't be ignored.

The nurses were really nice. They said they had seen people in a much worse state. They thought the stitching was very neatly done and said it must have been a very good surgeon. They cleaned me up and put some non-sticking dressings on the oozy bits. 

The horrible blisters are caused by an allergy to the tape that holds bandages on.

It was so nice to get cleaned up. I have not been able to get the area wet, so it smelt awful. They suggested getting a crop top. I had a quick look for one at the shops, while feeling very faint and nearly blacking out at times, but they only make those things up to size 12, bastards.

Getting to the doctor was not easy. I had to painfully get dressed (there is no pain as long as I don't move!). I had to try and get a parking spot right outside the doctors as I am too weak to walk. That took half an hour of driving round and round. 

Even sitting in the waiting room everything was going black from time to time and I nearly passed out. I have just lost so much fluid and blood. 

Now I am back home and will get into bed and stay there until tomorrow.

Home

It was a relief to get rid of those drains. I felt a lot more free to move about, except that the tight feeling was awful. I was scared to look at my gown because of the blood but it did start to dry up after a few hours. 

I was to go home, even though I was still totally zonked out by the oxycodone. 

So I got driven home, and on the way stopped at a cafe for fried eggs on toast and capuccino, and it's a wonder they didn't call in the Drug Squad. Maybe it was a nice cafe for bogan junkies. 

At home I was so exhausted I couldn't sleep. After you have been sleep-deprived for days and days, you often cannot settle any more, so I had to take a sleeping pill. I eventually fell asleep at about midnight, and slept 'til 8am, which was good. I hope that I will get more and more sleep as the days go by.

I still have to sleep on my back. But my own bed is soft, so back-sleeping doesn't hurt. It is so nice to have my own pillow.

I told the dogs I couldn't take them for a walk, but if they'd self-walk, then I'd take them to the beach and they could do that. In my dressing gown, I drove the 1 km to the beach and let them out of the car. They took themselves for a nice trot. It was great to look out at the blue sparkling sea and the green grass on the cliff tops. I felt weak and tired and shaky, but I did it for them, as they hadn't been out in a week.

I don't know if I will think it was worthwhile in the future. We'll have to wait and see.

At the moment, I wish to God I had never got it done.

I have been so sick, I wouldn't be surprised if it's taken years off my life. My nerves are shattered. I feel a wreck. 

Drains out, the truth you need to know

The very worst, most depressing part of the whole ordeal was the hideous, sickening, blood-filled drains. It was the drains that made me cry all the time. I felt like a cancer patient. I looked like I was dying, that's for sure. If I took the lift downstairs to buy the paper, people would stare in horror and hurry away. 

On the 5th day, it was decided not much was coming out of the drains any more, and they should come out. The job was assigned to a very experienced surgical sister, triple-certificated, who had worked in the Solomons with no doctor to back her up for several years. When operations were needed in that remote area, she was the surgeon's assistant and did a lot of the work. At least I had the best. 

She said it would be best if I got almost-knocked-out by the dreaded Hillbilly Heroin. We agreed to a 5mg first dose, then a further 5mg if I still felt OK after an hour, so that's what happened. That way, if I was feeling it was stopping me from breathing, I could say I didn't want any more.

The drains are not just sticking there on the edge of the relevant bit of anatomy. They are stitched in place, but they go right up inside you, in a half-circle. Several days after they are placed there, tissue has begun to grow onto them and cling to them, so they are well and truly stuck.

To say I was terrified is an understatement. I think in most cases, these evil things ought to be removed under a light general anaesthetic. 

The nurse well and truly warned me about the sensations I would feel. A pulling, tugging feeling, probably quite a bit of pain, some nasty sounds and a bit of a gush of blood.

I'd say it was worse than that. I'd describe it as having a double molar tooth pulled from the middle of your anatomical bits without pain relief. The sound was sickening. It was like a small explosion as the tissue let go of the plastic tube and it pulled free.

After the first one, I needed a few minutes to collect myself. I did yell, but not a lot. I didn't yell for the second one, I was expecting the horrendous feeling and sound.  By the way, removing the 2 stitches holding them in place, which had been stinging me like wasps for days, wasn't painful at all. The stitches part was OK, but not the other part.

Why didn't anyone else's BR blog describe this horrible thing? Well you have got it here.

Think about it carefully. Don't have the bloody operation unless you can handle the removal of the drains without requiring ten years of psychiatric work to recover from the shock.

I don't believe in psychiatrists, but I think it will take me many months, or even years, to even BEGIN to forget this particular nightmare.

After the drains came out, I felt like a real bogan junkie, and had visions of going down to the railway station to 'hang out' and get more of that stuff. Yeah, dripping blood all the way from where the drains had been.

"It'll slough off in the shower"

One morning the doctor came (the hospital Registrar) came and looked under the dressings. "Your right nipple hasn't taken," she informed me. "Doctor would have explained how that can happen. Not enough blood supply. But don't worry, it will just slough off in the shower some time in the next few weeks, and we'll construct a new one for you from your own skin. Also, you are going to develop 'dog ears', large tags of excess skin that doctor will have to remove in another operation later on."  

Slough off in the shower. What a delightful thought. Yes I knew this could happen but doesn't everyone think "It can't happen to me"? Of course I thought it couldn't. I thought the worst that might happen would be a lot of pain. I didn't get any pain at all really. 

So one day I'll be showering and my right nipple is going to come right off and go down the drain hole. How bloody marvellous.

I am not a person who gets depressed. I am usually very cheerful. But what with the drains, no sleep, the bleeding, the mess, being unable to shower or even wash properly, being unable to wash my hair and feeling very filthy and now this, I was seriously depressed, and started to cry most of the time.

"Don't ever do this", I wanted to tell anyone who'd listen. "This is a horrible, vile, disgusting operation and you have to try and do without it."

So far, I wish I had not had it done. I find that the information on the internet, even on people's blogs, which should be straightforward and honest, is just not true, or it wasn't true for me.

Nothing I had read had painted a picture of what it would be like, the sheer horror of it all. 

Is there some conspiracy to keep the truth from public gaze? I know breast reduction is a big industry.

But I hope my blog will make people wonder if they really do need to be chopped up, or whether they could just buy a bra that will flatten them somewhat and a huge tent dress.

They sell great tent dresses in Fiji, New Caledonia and The Solomons, where ladies are meant to be big. But you can't buy them that size on the Mainland.

Horrible, disgusting drainage tubes

Why didn't I find out more about drainage tubes? I looked everywhere on the internet. I assumed they'd be about four inches long, one either side and taped to my sides so I couldn't see them, with a small-ish collection cup. 

The hideous things were six feet long. They were absolutely vile. I was losing about 200ml from each side per day, and it'd gradually run down into a kind of pump-like thing, and from time to time the nurse would come and use that pump to get it into a see-through bag at the very end, from where it would be removed and measured every 24 hours.   

Everywhere I went, the drainage tubes had to be dragged along, and I was always in fear of tripping over them on the way to the bathroom, until a nurse gave me a cotton bag to carry them in. Blood seeped from where they came out all the time. The blood everywhere was awful. When I lay down in bed for a few minutes, and then sat up, there'd be blood under me, on the sheets, on the pillow. When I got up and sat in a chair, blood ran down the back of it and onto the seat. Blood ran onto my new knickers, so I stopped wearing them. I had to wear a hospital gown all the time, as my own pjs would have got in the way of inspections of the mess.

I do not like blood. That is why I am not a doctor, a nurse or a vet. I hate blood. It makes me want to vomit, and I did vomit a few times at the sight of it. I also frequently vomited in sympathy with pregnant ladies. The nurses learnt to give me a vomit bag too if someone was coming in vomiting.

On one occasion I went to the toilet and sat down, and must have squeezed my left arm against the opening where the tube was coming from, because blood spurted onto the floor of the bathroom and made a horrible congealed red mess. Vomit. 

I thought maybe the tubes would be in for three days. Not so, those tubes stay in until nothing is coming out of them, and plenty was coming out of them. Loss of blood and fluid was making me weak and sick. On the second day my drip was taken out because I was eating and drinking, but it wasn't enough. 

The feeling of tightness from the stitches got worse over the days. I felt like the stitches were cutting into me, like there was a tight piece of rope tied round me. 

Eventually I agreed to HALF an Endone tablet (2.5mg), just so I could get some sleep. 

Each night, I slept maybe 2-3 hours. Nurses clattered in and out checking vital signs every hour or so. I would get up at 2am or 3am and go to the tea-making room where there was a soft chair, dragging along the sickening drainage tubes filled with blood, and I'd just sit there and cry, I was so depressed over it all. The back and sides of my hospital gown were always covered in blood. There was always some blood running down towards my legs. I have never seen so much of the nasty, horrible stuff.

By the sixth day of drainage, no sleep and the tight feeling, I wished I had a gun so I could just shoot myself and get it over with. It was nothing but misery and blood, light-headedness and boring food, vital signs taken and noisy nurses. I started to hallucinate about going down into Boganville in my hospital gown and trying to purchase a gun on the street with my credit card or something. I  just wanted the depressing, dreadful thing to end. I could see it was no different from a cancer operation - it would be just as nasty, just as depressing. Huge bits of you were cut off, and it did something upsetting to your brain. 

Women and teenage girls came in and out and had miscarriages or were found to have ectopic pregnancies and they'd cry through the night. The labour ward had a shortage of beds, so women in labour would stay in my room (there were 4-6 beds) in the throes of having babies all night long. Sleep through that? You have to be kidding. 

There is something to be said for private hospitals. But I just didn't have thousands and thousands of spare moulah. 

The lack of sleep drove me insane. But even if it had been dead quiet in there, there is no way I could have slept through the drains, the bleeding and the tight feeling.

Like any good bogan worth its salt, I had sneaked in some Valium, well hidden (as I know they do inspections of luggage at Bogan regional hospitals - I have some good hiding spots) so I took some of those from time to time, just to feel a bit sane.

When I read my file, I saw that Father had been in and had given me the Last Rites. That was good, it's nice to know some Father will do that when the end really does come. But I'd rather have had a Bishop. 

Waking up and trying to kill me with Hillbilly Heroin

Gradually I woke up and looked around me. To my left was a young girl explaining which methadone clinic she attended and explaining why the doctor had prescribed five Valium per day - she'd cut down from ten to help her baby.  Yeah, well done girl.

Opposite, a lady had just woken up from a hysterectomy, and had thrown a left hook at a nurse when told "You can't get out of bed just yet and go downstairs, and anyway, there is no smoking allowed on hospital grounds." Out of bed she got, grabbed her cigarettes and took off down the hallway towards the lift, dragging her clattering drip on the ground behind her and cursing like a wharfie.

Outside, I could see the expanse of the city drifting off towards the horizon. It was rather nice actually, lots of trees. 

Every couple of hours, they'd come and try to give me the Endone and I kept repeating 'I HAVE NO PAIN. WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GIVE ME THAT WHEN I HAVE NO PAIN?' Occasionally I agreed to swallow a couple of Panadol to shut them up.

My blood pressure dropped very low. 105/70, then 100/65, 

then 95/60, 90/55. They were pretty concerned about that. At one stage they left my chart on the bedside table so I took a look. Endone 20mg post-op.

20mg? Are you kidding? When the nurse came back, I demanded to know, "Why was I given 20mg of oxycodone when the normal dose is 5mg?' "Oh, I suppose the doctor judged it by your weight. You are quite heavy, you know, equal to two patients. So you should be able to handle 20mg."

I am NOT as heavy as two patients. Two ballerinas maybe. 

"It nearly effing killed me," I repeated. Off she went. Who cares. 

Going under, finally

A typical Bogan (not me)

After about an hour of poking and prodding and sticking me with huge needles apparently to punish me for calling them veterinary anaesthetists, they 'found' a vein with the help of the ultrasound machine. How much use would they have been during World War 2 in a field hospital? F.A.

I then demanded my 'something to keep me calm' and they informed me it was TOO LATE, that Doctor was getting fed up with waiting for my veins to appear, and that they'd be putting me under right NOW and that's all I recall of that episode.

I woke up with no pain at all, just a nasty tight feeling, like wearing a Size 10 bra when actually you are Size 16. Which a lot of people do, just to kid themselves. 

I felt OK. A nurse in recovery said, "We'll give you something for the pain." 

I said "No thanks, I've got no pain."

She said "Of course you have", and jabbed me with something. I think the Chinese anaesthetists told her to give me a hard time and treat me like they would a wildebeeste at the zoo. 

"What was that?" I asked. 

"You wouldn't know what it is, now put your oxygen mask back on."

"I want to know what it is first."

"Endone," she replied. "But you wouldn't know what that is."

"What's the active ingredient in that?" I demanded to know.

"It's oxycodone." 

"F***!" I exclaimed, knowing that people just out of anaesthetic often say that, even Baptists carrying Bibles, as they can't help themselves. 

"Hillbilly heroin! You've given me Hillbilly heroin,

 and I didn't want it!"

The nurse glared at me, not caring. 

"Oxycodone," I told her angrily, throwing off my breathing apparatus, while my blood pressure dropped and my breathing slowed and I began to die, "is an opioid analgesic synthesised from opium-derived thebane, developed in 1916 in Germany, and no doubt used to bump off a large number of useless feeders in the years to come."

She glared at me and peered over her glasses to see if I was a for-real bogan from the Port town down south or just pretending.

"And where did you glean these amazing facts?" she asked.

"I did the first year of Medicine," I replied, "and I retained an interest in it. Biology, Zoology, Microbiology, Chemistry. You have killed me. I can't breathe. My diaphragm is becoming progressively paralysed."

"Put your oxygen mask back on!" she said, forcing it over my nose. "You will be fine if you keep that on." 

"An oxygen mask IS ONLY ANY GOOD IF YOU ARE STILL BREATHING, AND I AM BARELY BREATHING," I informed her. "You have overdosed me. How much oxycodone have you given me?"

She went away and left me to suffocate.

It was terrifying. I just knew that if I closed my eyes and fell asleep, that would be the end of me. I had to stay awake and consciously say to myself, "Breathe in, breathe out," just like a person who has quadriplegia and is learning how to breathe without the iron lung. At times when I forgot and drifted off, I woke with a start, gasping for breath.

I hoped the effects of the Hillbilly Heroin wouldn't last too long. I hoped they had written down somewhere that in case of near-death, they were to call a Bishop, because I am a very important Catholic. I carry a card that says that in my handbag. 

Somehow I managed to stay awake until I got back to the ward.

"We'll bring you some more Endone for your pain," said a nurse. "NO," I replied. "I DO NOT WANT ANY MORE OXYCODONE. YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL ME. I DO NOT HAVE A DRUG HABIT AND I DO NOT HAVE ANY TOLERANCE TO OPIOIDS."

She left me alone, thank God. The Hillbilly Heroin wore off. There really wasn't any pain, just this awful tight feeling, and a prickly feeling where the blood drainage tubes were stuck in my sides. 

The Operation

The surgeon came and drew pictures on my front and decided where to cut. This didn't bother me. He said he'd probably have to take my nipples right off and move them, and that this was more risky, but he'd explained all the risks and shown me the photos of the possible horrendous outcomes so I knew what could happen. (But of course, 'it won't happen to me', right?)

At last it was my turn. The cheerful nurse wheeled my bed into the room just before the operating area. There it was the job of 'someone' to find a vein in my arm. 

I know where my vein is. I have just ONE findable vein, in the crook of the right arm. I can even feel its ropiness without trying too hard. BUT THAT IS THE ONE AND ONLY AVAILABLE VEIN.

I became a blood donor in 1973. I donated only once, and they politely requested I not come back, due to my unfindable veins, and the fact it wasted too much of the Red Cross' time. Fair enough. But these days, I do have a vein that can be found. I'm very proud of it. When nurses collecting blood take a quick squiz and say "Tch tch, I can't see any veins on you at all," I show them The One.

And so a couple of surgical nurses came along to insert the cannula. I said, "I was supposed to have something to calm me down. When am I getting it? I am bloody terrified here." (Well, maybe I said something better than 'bloody', but that's OK, 'cos the hospital is surrounded by some very bogan regions, as well as some nice ones, and almost everyone has a colourful vocab.)

They said they'd make sure I got it once they got the cannula inserted. I said that would be two effing late, I would likely jump off the effing trolley and make a bolt for it by then. 

"Tch tch, you don't have any veins," said one of the nurses. 

I showed her The Vein.

"That one's no good," she said. "Doctor likes to operate mainly from that side, and all our gear is also on the left side." 

They went off and brought two clever-looking Chinese gentlemen who appeared to be no more than 19 years old.

They poked around. They prodded. They tried my hand, my foot, my leg, the whole of my arm. They must have poked me with horrible huge needles 15 times, saying, "Have we got one? Is that a vein? No, try again over here."

'I ONLY HAVE ONE VEIN," I pointed out. 'AND IT'S HERE IN THE CROOK OF MY RIGHT EFFING ARM."

"Oh no, we can't use your RIGHT arm," one of the clever Chinese said. "We have to use the left one. Go and get the ultrasound machine Doris!"

"Are you nurses?" I asked.

"No, we are doctors."

"Fully qualified?" 

"In fact, we are both anaesthetists."

"Veterinary anaesthetists?" I ventured.

"No, fully qualified HUMAN anaesthetists."

"Have you done this before?"

"We have done this hundreds of times."

"You could have fooled me."

At that point, I knew I had thoroughly insulted the anaesthetists and they would most likely try to kill me during the course of the operation and make it look like an accident. 

The government would then do a huge cover-up job as usual.

The Day Before and The Day

I arrived at the hospital on the Tuesday evening and the accommodation was excellent. No-one else was inhabiting the country patients accommodation centre, so it was just me. Nice and peaceful. I slept quite well, and the next day, made my way to the waiting area for surgery. There I was thoroughly checked out and got a gown. I spoke the the anaesthetist and asked him, "Are you having a good day? Is everyone waking up?" He said "Everyone has always woken up for me." So that was good news. I told him I was terrified of general anaesthetics, and he promised to get me something to calm me down, but things were very busy with many emergency cases, and HE FORGOT. I was left on a trolley in a ward absolutely terrified. 

The Day Before

Well, here I am, I've arrived at the dreaded day before admission. I am going to drive to the hospital now because I am staying in their accommodation block overnight.

I have all the last minute instructions. It will happen after lunch tomorrow. I can eat a light breakfast no later than 6.30am tomorrow. After that I have to proceed to the ward to be weighed and measured and all that.

I am pretty much terrified but determined.

"Courage is not the absence of fear, it's the mastery of it."

And so goodbye until my next post, which may not be for a few days.

Three days to go

Aaargh. Three days to go. Not getting a lot of sleep. People are ringing to encourage me. And emailing. And texting. Because they know I might chicken out at the very last minute.

I don't think I will, but it's scary. 

Quiet Acceptance

Well, with six days to go I have reached a point of quiet acceptance of the whole ordeal. I think I will be fine and I might even enjoy the hospital food, which has got to be better than the unidentifiable airlines mash. 

I doubt I'll have much more to say before the day. I've given up panicking about it. What's the point! 

Hospital food: Yum. I am going to concentrate on the thought of food. Boiled or poached eggs for breakfast with cereal and juice. Nice brewed coffee. Baked fish. All that good stuff. I'll take my camera and get some pics of it. 

Airline food: What the hell is it??

Ten Days to Go

Well, I got the tranquillizers from the doctor and they are so strong, I took half a tablet before bed, and it kept me happy for three days!!! It's wearing off now though - might be time for another one.

At times I feel quite calm about it and at time panicky. It's been 22 years since my last operation (a caesarian) and I'm sure things have really improved with anaesthesia and postoperative care.

I do not like going to a public hospital though. They've had a lot of bad press lately. 

I remember when I had my appendix out when I was 13, how horrible it was. You could only have visitors on Sundays and only for 2 hours. The sisters in charge were so horrible and cranky and they always wore veils like nuns. After the anaesthetic you vomited for hours, while holding onto your side so it didn't burst open. You weren't allowed out of bed for a week. The mongrels woke you up at 5am every day for a wash and to change the sheets without getting you out of bed - quite a skill that was, and 6am was breakfast time.

IT WON'T BE THAT BAD, RIGHT? 

Scared? Make that terrified

I have had a horrible few days imagining things about the operation. I have been lying awake at night terrified at the thought of the anaesthetic, thinking maybe I won't ever wake up, or the operation might cause me to have a stroke or a heart attack. 

I have been scared of the possibility of infection, of the wound falling apart as has happened to me before or all manner of things goin

g wrong. 

I have made an appointment with my G.P. for this afternoon to ask him for something to help me sleep for the next 14 nights. The practice has a policy of not prescribing 'addictive drugs' but I think I'll put it to him that either he gives me something or I'm going to stay drunk for 2 weeks. 

Swine Flu

There is concern about a Swine Flu pandemic.

I would not be surprised if they cancel all elective surgery.

They say that larger hospitals might be set aside for treating flu victims, excluding all other patients.

I'll just have to see, I suppose.

This is a photo of the hospital. It looks quite modern. I expected some old convict-built stone building at least a hundred years old.

My accommodation at the hospital for 19th May is on the 3rd floor. The operation happens on the 2nd floor. Apparently the room is sparse, but has tea and coffee making facilities. I doubt I'll be able to use them, I'll probably be told not to eat after 5pm or something. 

I am going to feel so alone that night! Two hours from friends and family. I won't have any visitors. I'll have to take several pairs of pyjamas and lots of underwear, because there'll be no-one to do my washing. 

I am not scared of pain. Just that horrible anaesthetic, that awful moment when everything goes black. And that horrible waking-up time, when you're not quite sure where you are, and everything hurts. 

28th April 2009: The Letter

The letter came today. From the hospital. The date set down is 20th May.

NOW IS THE TIME TO GET SERIOUSLY TERRIFIED.

No, really! 

I read through all the info and had to ring up and ask some questions.

I can go up the day before and stay in the hospital's free accommodation. That's good to know. I didn't want to have to stay in a motel and because it's a 2 hour trip, I couldn't risk travelling on the day of the operation - there could be a traffic jam or something. So I'm going up there on 19th May. 

I keep thinking I am nuts to do this. All kinds of things can go wrong! But I keep reminding myself the doctor is one of the best, and he's been awarded the O.A.M. for services to surgery.

So really I shouldn't worry.

I am more scared of the anaesthetic than anything. I feel like they are killing me. 

March 2009

The doctor said I'd hear from the hospital 'within 3 months'. Well, it feels like it's never happening. If it does, I will be SO terrified.

I am worried that I am in my 50s and things don't heal as quickly any more. On the other hand, I am quite healthy - mostly - and I do exercise. 

I decided to exercise even more, to get ready, and take extra vitamin tablets.

Maybe it will just quietly go away and they'll forget about me.

February 2009

I had my second appointment. The doctor wanted to make sure I didn't change my mind.

I am bloody terrified, but I'm not changing my mind. I can't live like this any more, uncomfortable all the time, nasty rashes under the damn things, having to always sleep in a bra. 

I signed all the forms. The operation is to be in a public hospital in a capital city. It is 2 hours drive from where I live, but there's nothing I can do about that. 

I worry a bit about public hospitals - they haven't had good press. Golden staph outbreaks and that kind of thing. 

January 2009

I got to meet the specialist. It was a long trip to the Big Smoke. He hasn't got a marvellous bedside manner, but that doesn't bother me. I want him to be skilful, not necessarily friendly. And I believe he is. 

He showed me pictures of various breast-reduction results. Some good results, some a bit disastrous, so I understand that things can go wrong sometimes.

I didn't really want to look, as I've already looked at pictures on the internet, and I'm not impressed.

Yukky. What a horrible disfiguring operation! But I can't fit into any clothes any more. I am about size 18 in general, but unfortunately size 24-26 on top. It is nearly impossible to buy nice clothes in size 24-26. They are all crappy.

This is a picture of someone called Joanne before and after. She doesn't have much scarring. Some of the pictures the doctor showed me had worse scarring than this.

But that's just the start of the problems I have - a stooped back from the weight, unable to run or even walk fast. I try to run every day, but it hurts. So I just go for a long walk.

Various attempts to lose weight worked quite well, but no weight was lost from there. I'm quite happy with my weight. I just don't like those things.

Some people even stare at them when I'm out, so I have to be careful to wear very loose tops or layers of clothes to cover up.

All in all it isn't fun.

November 2008: Fed Up

In about November 2008 I got REALLY fed up with having huge melons. So I decided to make an appointment to see a specialist. I found the best one I could, and one who could do the op on Medicare with no cost to me.

I found out that, even though I have medical reasons for this operation, my medical fund won't pay the full amount, and I'd be out of pocket between $3,000 and $6,000, depending on the surgeon. 

So I was very pleased when a well known surgeon agreed to take me on under the public health system. He's experienced in many areas, including all kinds of plastic surgery and burns surgery. He trained in Edinburgh, Scotland. I believe the very best surgeons come from there.